


Alive

by Fenix21



Series: In My Silence 'Verse [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Hurt!Sam, John Knows, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Sam Has Powers, Underage Sex, mute!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 07:26:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6146065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenix21/pseuds/Fenix21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and John ask Sam to use his powers on a hunt and things go badly. In the aftermath, Dean needs to remind himself his little brother is alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

February 2000

 

Dean knew he shouldn't.

It wasn't even a question of ethics or morals or incest. Sam was hurt, injured inside and out, physically and emotionally, probably more than Dean or John could even comprehend. After all, it was _them_ —family—asking him to do this.

Dean veered away from that, away from just exactly _what_ they'd asked Sam to do, though it had never been voiced in so many words, and it didn't need to be. Sammy would have done it anyway because he wasn't going to let John die, no matter what kind of issues he had with the man. Letting John die would vicariously kill something in Dean, something Dean couldn't and wouldn't admit to, but that Sam was very aware of, and to save Dean any kind of pain, Sam would do what he had done and much, much worse.

Dean scooted across the mattress. What he was planning was stupid and wrong and not just because Sam was lying there bruised and cut and banged up in so many invisible ways, but because John could walk through that door at any second. He'd left almost an hour ago to drown his guilt at the bottom of a bottle at the bar three blocks down the street, leaving Sam's care to Dean as he always did. But Dean couldn't bring himself to give a shit about John's proximity or the danger of him walking in on them. He needed... He just needed.

He shuffled right up to Sam's side and lifted his left hand, let it hover so close to his little brother's abraded flesh that he could feel their body heat mingle and mix against his palm.

'Sammy,' he whispered, and waited.

Sam didn't turn his head to look at Dean, though Dean could tell by his breathing that he was still awake. He only lifted up, the fraction of an inch it took to bring his back in contact with Dean's hand. Dean swallowed thickly and let the weight of his palm rest for a few seconds between Sam's shoulder blades, careful not to press too hard against his wounds, and then slowly drew it downward, fingers tracing along his little brother's spine until he reached the waistband of his boxers and then went lower. He cupped the shallow curve of Sam's ass and pushed his fingers down into the warmth between his thighs.

'Sammy...' 

Dean couldn't finish, didn't know how to ask, or if he could even take 'no' for an answer.

Sam didn't make him. He just let his thighs fall apart a little, opening to Dean's stroking fingers, and Dean wasn't sure Sam liked it, or that he wanted it, but he couldn't help himself. Not this time. He lifted up, slung his leg over and pushed his knee down between Sam's, spreading him further. Sam turned his face into the pillow, but didn't move otherwise, just laid there while Dean's hand found its way up the leg of his boxers and pushed them aside enough to get fingers between his cheeks and push against that tight, clenching ring of muscle. His fingers weren't  slick and Sam twisted a little at the dry burn but didn't try and get away, didn't try to make him stop. Dean worked a finger up inside Sam, felt the squeeze and pull of his muscles in that soft, hot, dry heat.

'Jesus, Sammy, I—'

Sam understood all the words Dean couldn't find, couldn't say, and reached back a hand, awkwardly gripped Dean's hip, and pulled. Dean groaned and dropped between Sam's thighs, jerking his boxers down and then Sam's, just enough that he could slide his cock against Sam's ass, push down and in until the head of it met the still tight resistance of Sam's hole. He dribbled come at the sensation of that puckered muscle fluttering at the tip of his cock and used it to ease the way and push into his brother.

Sam went tense and tight and his fists balled up in the pillow by his head, and Dean knew he would be crying with the pain of it if he could make a sound, but that wasn't enough to stop Dean or make him pull back or go slower. He just leaned his forearm across Sam's shoulders to hold him and untangled one of his fists, urging him to lace his fingers with Dean's, and kept pushing.

He dipped his head to press a kiss against the side of Sam's neck and then moved up to nuzzle his jaw and breathe there for a second.

'Sammy, I— You gotta understand. What we— I couldn't—' Dean babbled quietly, never finishing his thought. He couldn't. He couldn't get that close to it, not yet. Maybe not ever. And how could he ask Sam to understand? _He_ didn't understand, didn't want to. What he did want was this—Sam beneath him, warm and alive and clenching around him, hips rocking into the mattress, pulling Dean deeper.

Dean buried his mouth and nose in Sam's still damp curls and thrust in the last inch, seating himself to the root of his cock, balls pressed to the curve of his brother's ass. Sam rolled his hips, and Dean groaned aloud and pushed down hard on his shoulders, pinning him in place. He sank his teeth into the curve of Sam's throat.

'Don't. Sam. Don't. I don't deserve...'

Sam stilled beneath him, spread his thighs further apart and let Dean thrust into him again and again, like he was punishing himself, and maybe he was. Maybe he was punishing himself for ever having put Sam in this position and punishing Sam for letting himself be used, for giving in and doing what Dean asked.

He didn't deserve pleasure from this. He didn't deserve the satisfaction of Sam writhing beneath him from the immense fullness of Dean sheathed deep and hard inside him. He deserved pain. The raw, hot drag of Sam's too tight insides against his cock as he thrust again, harder, deeper, because after tonight he wasn't so sure he and John weren't more monsters than the monsters they hunted.

At some point Dean started sobbing against Sam's shoulder. Not the kind that came with tears but the kind that were furious and silent and ripped like dull razor blades up out of his throat, tearing at his chest and issuing forth in nothing more than fierce convulsive shudders.

He came with a sharp, guttural cry that started on Sam's name but ended in a mangle of indistinguishable sounds.

Sam tensed beneath him, clenching painfully around his oversensitive cock. Dean winced and waited a long minute until Sam went limp and still beneath him. He kept himself up on his arms, careful not to rest his weight on Sam's injured back. He stayed that way, dripping sweat into the straight, narrow trough of Sam's back and watching it roll slowly down the cleft of his ass.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight, gave a defeated little whine in the back of his throat and collapsed at Sam's side. He fisted his hands in the sheet and curled in on himself, letting no part of his body touch Sam's.

Sam lay silent, like always, unmoving, breathing slowly evening out. He was so still, Dean was terrified to open his eyes and look at him, afraid of the hurt and hate he might find there because there was no way to make Sam understand what this was. He ducked his head down and pressed his face to his fists, started to shiver from the cold in the room.

He jerked when he felt fingers in his hair, soothing, stroking slowly, over and over, through the short fine hairs just above his ear. He squeezed his eyes tighter against the overwhelming sting in them and felt his chest fill up so that he had to struggle to breathe.

'Sammy,' he choked out.

The fingers crooked, scratched a little at his scalp, tugged until he finally dared open his eyes.

Sam was looking at him, eyes serene, calmer than seemed humanly possible after what he had done tonight, after what had been done _to_ him, and it made Dean a little bit afraid.

Dean turned his head until he could mouth at Sam's wrist, putting little kisses there like a supplicant to some venerated holy icon.

'Love you, Sammy,' he whispered.

Long, slender fingers curled possessively, squeezed at the back of his neck.

I know.


	2. Chapter 2

John slumped against the cold, wet brick by the motel door. He knew that sound—his eldest crying out his little brother's name—knew what it meant, and it made his stomach turn. At the same time he knew it was necessary, knew it would always have been this way; _had_ always been this way, if he could bring himself to admit it.

Because Dean never did anything halfway. So when he chose to love, of course he would do it completely. And he was a physical creature, of few words when it mattered most, with a passion John liked to tell himself came from Mary, but in reality was a mirror of his own.

There was silence beyond the door now, and John knew he could have gone in to find his boys curled around each other, like they inevitably always did in their sleep, or at least as much as Sam's injuries would allow, and fast asleep or very nearly so. But he wasn't ready to face that, not nearly ready to look and to _know_ the truth he had guessed at for a while now.

He drew in a shaky breath to try and calm the roiling still in his stomach, shoved a hand through his damp, already wild hair and pushed off the wall to trudge across the lot and down the street, to some other bar, to drown more of what he couldn't bring himself to face.


End file.
